The Low Grounds

I opened the gate and we gurgled over the cattle-guards

onto the two-track road

that became a T-line straight into the James,

East or West.

East, towards the turkeys we moved

along the authority of the trees.

Their shadows spilled over the river.

You pulled out that call from the glove-compartment.

“Almost gobbler season” you said

and rolled down my window.

I knew my duty. I pulled myself through

and held onto the roof.

And from the top of that old green Explorer

I stared up into the branches above

searching―

always searching for those babbling, nesting buffoons.

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